


It is at moments after I have dreamed

by theredwagon



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Hurt Athos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, show level violence and gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 19:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18267764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredwagon/pseuds/theredwagon
Summary: In the valley below the abbey at Douai a French victory on the battlefield leaves King Louis’ forces in chaos and the injured and the dead practically outnumber the living.  The Cavalry, Infantry and Musketeers are camped together, burying their fallen and licking their wounds.  One soldier’s injuries though are beyond the skills of the exhausted medics and help is needed, literally and figuratively, from above.  When the Inseparables find themselves reunited two years into the war with Spain, tempers flare and old wounds are reopened as they band together to save one of their own.





	It is at moments after I have dreamed

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note; This started as a d’Artagnan whump story, a distraction from two other stories I’m actively writing and needed a short break. It ended up though being all about Porthos and Aramis _and_ Athos and Aramis trying to reconnect after two years apart. Angst abounds!!
> 
> Title borrowed from a poem of the same name by e.e. cummings 
> 
> Disclaimer; no money being made, no harm intended

**It is at moments after I have dreamed**

 

“I’m looking for one of my men, a Musketeer. Tall, dark hair to his shoulders, he’s got a scar running through his left eyebrow, another on his right cheekbone.”

The young physician’s assistant looks up, smudges of blood on his face and more on his smock, so much more.

“Name?” the boy asks tiredly.

“D’Artagnan, Charles.”

The boy squints at the wrinkled parchment he’s retrieved from the pocket of his smock and scans it, using his stained fingers as a guide. “Sorry sir, not on the list, but you can have a look inside, see for…”

Porthos doesn’t wait for him to finish. He brushes by him into the infirmary tent and begins searching for himself.

There are dozens of wounded and dying soldiers from all the subdivisions of the army, some moaning and crying, others so still he can’t tell if they’re dead or alive. The stench of blood and bodily fluids is overwhelming. Porthos covers his mouth and nose with his head scarf as he goes from cot to cot, looking for his missing brother. 

Walking through the crowded rows of patients Porthos takes the time to speak to each of the wounded Musketeers he finds, not simply to ask about d’Artagnan but to check on their well being and to give them courage. These men are his brothers too, every single one of them.

By the time he’s gone through the entire infirmary he feels shattered, and he stumbles out into the cold night air, takes a moment to get his bearings and another to calm his pounding heart. He’s actually relieved that the boy isn’t there, that means there’s a chance to find him unharmed.

If he’s still alive, that is.

 

***************

 

Once foot in front of the other, that’s what Athos keeps telling himself as he weaves on his feet, exhausted and injured, going from body to body on the battlefield looking for any sign of their missing youngest. 

They’d been separated, the three of them, in the chaos of the last charge. Athos had been sidelined by a gash to his skull and Porthos tasked with taking charge of a company of Infantrymen who’d lost their captain. That left d’Artagnan to lead the Musketeers into one final push to take the field. The French troops have paid dearly for their victory though and Athos feels utterly devastated as he surveys the carnage.

He sees bits of cloth, Musketeer blue, torn off from pourpoints* and sashes lying here and there, but no sign of their missing comrade, no soft brown leathers among the wool jerkins of the Infantry and the fine uniforms of the fallen Spanish. Athos stumbles and nearly falls to his knees but he’s caught by strong arms, pulled upright and steadied.

“He’s not in the morgue thank Christ, or in the infirmary although we’ve got eight men in there, two critical,” Porthos tells him quietly.

Athos rubs a hand over his sweaty, bloody face. “I don’t know…I don’t know where else to look.”

“We’ll find him brother, come on, I need to see to that cut on your head…”

“Later, we have to keep searching,” Athos insists but then everything tilts and the world goes black.

 

***************

 

Porthos has laid Athos down on his bedroll near the fire. The injury suffered by their Captain looks grisly. It’s been cleaned and stitched by one of the medics, his hair cut away in a neat circle around the wound. Porthos is glad that Athos is not a vain man, if it’d been Aramis…

…Aramis who is just a heartbeat away on top of the hill in the abbey looming dauntingly above them. He pushes that thought aside almost angrily and pulls the blanket up and around his sleeping brother.

Someone approaches. Porthos looks up from where he’s sitting. It’s Bernaire, a quiet young man who’s been with the regiment for nearly five years. Intelligent, dependable, a good sort in Porthos’ opinion. He looks nervous, like he’s afraid to speak to him.

“What is it, lad?”

Bernaire swallows. “Sir, there’s a boy, from the Infantry, sobbing and wailing and he’s got d’Artagnan’s unifo…”

Porthos jumps to his feet and the young man stutters to a stop, visibly frightened.

“Where?” Porthos grounds out.

“Come with me,” Bernaire says quickly. 

Porthos follows him to the far end of the camp, where the latrines are being dug and a pit for the fallen will be opened. A tent’s been erected there as well, not as large as the infirmary or the mess and oddly out of place in this wholly undesirable location.

Beside the opening of the tent is a young man, a very young man, no more than eighteen or so, on his knees weeping, d’Artagnan’s boots, weapons and armor in a pile beside him, the lad’s leather doublet clutched in the boy’s trembling hands. A few other Musketeers are standing around him, looking anxious and clearly avoiding Porthos’ gaze.

Holy Mother of God, Porthos isn’t sure he can do this.

“Sir?” Bernaire questions tentatively.

Porthos nods and takes the last few steps that bring him in front of the sobbing lad.

“Lèon, you must stop crying now!” Bernaire scolds. “This is Monsieur Porthos of the Musketeers, can you tell him how you came to be in possession of d’Artagnan’s personal effects?”

The lad looks up, startled, instantly fearful of Porthos and he shrinks back. Porthos goes down on one knee, every muscle in his body protesting in pain as he does so and he reaches out a hand towards the boy called Lèon.

“Lèon, lad, have you seen the Musketeer d’Artagnan? Those are his things, we’ve been looking everywhere for him.”

The boy still looks horribly frightened but he nods, fresh tears running down his filthy, bloodied face. “He saved my life!” he stutters miserably, hugging d’Artagnan’s doublet to his chest. “Threw himself between me and the Spanish bastard coming at me, I’d lost my sword and…and Monsieur d’Artagnan…he just came out of nowhere and shot him! But then another one of those awful Spaniards came and cut him down,” the boys wails, burying his face in the worn brown leather of d’Artagnan’s doublet, sobs shaking his entire body.

Porthos needs a moment to digest this information. He wills himself to stay calm and in control and not grab the brat by the shoulders and shake him until he tells him just where the hell d’Artagnan is. 

“Lèon, you’re going to get a proper thrashing if you don’t tell us where we can find d’Artagnan!” Bernaire hisses, furious, saving Porthos the trouble. “No one blames you for anything, just tell us if he’s alive for God’s sake!” The other Musketeers chime in as well, urging the lad to stop crying and just speak.

“He’s in there,” he stutters, hiccupping and sniffling loudly. “They gave me his things, told me to give them to his captain, I didn’t know where to find you,” he tells Porthos sorrowfully, obviously assuming that he is the Musketeer captain, “but mostly I didn’t want to leave him.”

Porthos nods slowly and steels himself. “And what’s in there, boy?”

Lèon looks at Porthos with so much pain etched on his young face Porthos nearly gasps. “It’s where they put the dying, they dose them up, keep them quiet and they sleep until they pass,” the lad says, lower lip trembling. “I’m so sorry sir, I didn’t mean for this…he just came out of nowhere…he saved my worthless hide…” the boy says miserably. Bernaire drops down beside him and wraps an arm around his shoulders. 

“No life is worthless Lèon, d’Artagnan did what any good French soldier would have done, pull yourself together now and stop crying, make him proud that he saved your life,” Bernaire tells him kindly. He manages to extract d’Artagnan’s doublet from the boy’s hands and he passes it to one of the other Musketeers, Marcel. “Collect the rest of d’Artagnans things,” he says quietly.

Marcel and the others carefully retrieve d’Artagnan’s belongings from the ground. They look to Porthos for orders. 

“Go back to camp, check on the Captain,” Porthos instructs them. “He’s injured though, don’t let him see what you’re carrying, put all of that in my tent, the lads should have it pitched by now,” he adds woodenly. “Bernaire, you’re with me. You, Lèon, show me where I can find my Musketeer.”

The boy gets to his feet, still trembling, his face a mess of grime, tears and snot and he wipes it all away on his filthy sleeve. Bernaire follows quietly behind Porthos, Lèon leading the way on unsteady legs.

If Porthos thought the infirmary had a horrific smell this place simply reeks of death. It’s hushed and dim inside and two pairs medics are moving quietly from cot to cot, checking on their patients, all of whom are motionless. He hears a whisper of prayer, looks closer and sees their cassocks and it hits him; the men aren’t medics, they’re priests, giving the last rites. Porthos seethes. Why the hell was d’Artagnan brought here and not to the infirmary? 

Lèon stops at the fourth cot on the left side of the tent. Porthos feels Bernaire’s hand come down gently on his arm but he shakes him off and moves closer to get a better look. Maybe the lad was wrong, a misunderstanding or possibly mistaken identity? He could be a thief, caught with d’Artagnan’s things and concocted a wild story to save his hide. It may not be d’Artagnan after all, lying there under that blanket, still as death. 

Lèon doesn’t give Porthos the courtesy of checking for himself. He falls to his knees and pulls the blanket down away from the patient’s stubbled jaw. He lays a hand on his saviour’s face with gentle reverence, fresh tears tracking new lines in the filth on his cheeks.

“Mother of God,” Porthos whispers. He grabs Lèon by the arm and jerks him back, taking his place at his young brother’s side. D’Artagnan’s eyes flutter but they don’t open. Porthos, anxious to get him out of this hellhole pulls down the blanket to assess his injuries.

He gags. 

His white shirt is black with blood, sliced apart and a pile of bandages stretch from his shoulder to his navel, also stained black. Although it’s only been half a day the wound already smells putrid. Livid, Porthos decides that someone will pay for this with their blood. But his first priority is getting d’Artagnan out of this place of death immediately.

“Porthos?”

Startled, he looks away from the wound to his brother’s face; D’Artagnan’s eyes are just slits but he blinks and looks right at him.

“Been searching everywhere for you, lad,” Porthos says shakily. He cups d’Artagnan’s cheek and the boy reflexively leans into his touch. 

“Why? Are we going home?”

Those few whispered words are like a sword through his heart. D’Artagnan sounds so hopeful and expectant, so God-damned _heartbreaking_ , beside him, Bernaire chokes on a sob. 

It takes every ounce of Porthos’ strength to remain composed. “Yeah we are, so you just hang in there alright? We’ll be home before you know it, I’m sorry if we shake you around a bit but it’s time to go.”

“I’m tired, brother,” the boy slurs. “Take me home…please.”

“I promise,” Porthos vows solemnly. “Bernaire, we’re taking him with the cot, there’s no other way,” he says lowly. The younger man nods and takes his place at d’Artagnan’s feet.

“Gentlemen what do you think you’re doing?”

It’s one of the priests, or maybe they’re monks he thinks. “This man is coming with us,” Porthos tells him in a tone that leaves no room for argument. The monk takes a step back, intimidated by Porthos but obviously conflicted. Porthos straightens to his full height and scowls. He doesn’t really give a toss what the monk thinks either way but it will be easier to depart without a fight. 

Reluctantly, the man nods.

It’s tricky but they manage to get d’Artagnan out of that dreadful place without tipping him off the cot. The trip to the infirmary though is agonizingly slow. D’Artagnan is barely aware but he remains semi-conscious. He doesn’t seem to be in much pain though, Lèon had said they dose them heavily, he hopes there’s no consequences from that, d’Artagnan obviously can’t afford any further complications.

With Lèon trailing behind them they carry their patient into the infirmary tent and Bernaire goes looking for the medic at once. 

D’Artagnan has stopped stirring. Porthos kneels and checks his pulse with trembling fingers. It’s sluggish, barley there but steady.

 _Thank you, Jesus._ He crosses himself.

“Why have you brought this man here?” the medic demands in a hissed whisper. “There nothing I can do for him.”

Porthos gets to his feet and grabs the man by his smock. “Do you have any idea who this soldier is?” Porthos grates out, incensed. “He’s the King’s own champion, mentored by the Captain of the Musketeers himself, husband to the Queen’s dearest Lady in Waiting. Now, do you still think there’s nothing you can do for him?”

The medic looks duly terrified. “Take him to the back, to the surgery area,” the young man croaks.

“Good, now get one of your aides to clean the blood and muck off of him. I’d better find him spotless when I get back here with our Captain,” Porthos threatens. “Bernaire will stay to make sure that you bathe him and treat his wound properly.”

Porthos turns to the boy, Lèon. “You need to wash, eat and sleep. I’m forever in your debt, lad, thank you for not abandoning him,” Porthos says quietly. 

Lèon looks up at Porthos, eyes wide. “How could I? He saved me,” the lad stutters. “I’ve never seen anyone fight like that, he was fierce and brave and…” The boy trails off, swallowing reflexively. He looks drained, exhausted and ready to collapse. “Tell him I’ll be back,” he adds in a whisper.

“I will, now go, I’m sure your Captain is looking for you. If you have any trouble, tell him to speak to me or Captain Athos.”

Lèon nods. Before he departs he runs his fingers gently over d’Artagnan’s cheek one more time.

Porthos and Bernaire gingerly carry the unconscious d’Artagnan to the surgery area where the medic and his assistant are waiting anxiously. Porthos turns to Bernaire. “I’ll be back as soon as possible. Remember, he’s your _brother_ , if these two don’t give him the care he deserves, act accordingly.”

The medic looks truly outraged by his threats. Porthos swiftly corrects the man’s haughty attitude with a terrifying glare. Thoroughly chastised, the medic scurries into action under Bernaire’s watchful eye. 

“Go, and hurry back,” the young Musketeer urges Porthos. 

Porthos leaves. He needs to find Athos, tell him what’s happened, warn him that…that it’s bad. 

This is probably going to be the most difficult thing he’s ever had to do. 

 

***************

 

Athos wakes to a world of pain.

His head is throbbing, his stomach rebelling and he foolishly tries to sit. Thankfully, strong hands grasp him gently, help him up. He needs a moment to get his head to stop spinning, to focus.

“Captain, are you alright?”

Marcel. He’s on his knees beside him, hand resting on his back, steadying him.

“Where’s Porthos?” Athos croaks.

Marcel hands him a tin cup of water which Athos drinks very slowly. “He um…well, there was a boy, said he knew where d’Artagnan was,” Marcel explains tentatively.

“And?” Athos demands.

“And Porthos told me to come check on you, he and Bernaire went with the boy to find d’Artagnan. I came straight here so I don’t know what happened.”

Athos fights the urge to strangle one of his best Musketeers. “Go find them and don’t come back until you do!” he hisses, head throbbing in time which each word he says.

Marcel jumps to his feet and salutes his Captain awkwardly.

“At ease, soldier.” 

Porthos, _finally_. 

“Go to the infirmary, find Bernaire, help him with whatever he needs,” Porthos instructs. The Musketeer hurries to do Porthos’ bidding leaving the pair of them alone in front of the dying embers of the fire.

“Well, is he dead?” Athos asks bluntly. If he doesn’t get right to the point Porthos will probably dance around it, give him some cock and bull about how he went down bravely, that he’s a credit to the regiment and all that meaningless rubbish.

“No. But it’s bad.” 

Athos feels his breath still and his heart clench. _Bad_ is not _dead_. “Help me up.”

Porthos reaches down and pulls him to his feet. Athos feels the earth tilt. Good thing Porthos seems to have predicted that and he’s holding him by both shoulders, giving him the time to steady himself.

Slowly, they make their way to the infirmary. When they enter, every man who isn’t unconscious salutes. Athos waves his hand, he’s never felt above any of these soldiers, their reverence irks him, most of his fellow officers don’t deserve the respect of the men fighting and dying while they watch from afar.

“This way,” Porthis says quietly. They walk silently through the rows of cots to where a scowling Bernaire and a horrified Marcel are watching the medic work on the unconscious d’Artagnan.

Porthos said it was bad but this…this is ghastly. D’Artagnan’s been sliced open from his right shoulder to his navel diagonally. The wound is horrendous, deep, and probably already infected from the filth of the battlefield. He can’t see his entrails though, Athos notes clinically, which means he has a chance. Regardless, it looks like a mortal wound and yet the boy is still alive and fighting. That has to mean something.

“I don’t know how you expect me to stitch this,” the harried medic says to Porthos. “I don’t even know where to start!”

“I don’t give a shit where you start just do it!” Porthos growls, his entire body taut, like he’s ready to pounce.

“What is your name, Monsieur?” Athos asks the medic. 

“Lebarre, sir, Paul Lebarre,” the man answers tiredly. “Captain, I…this is beyond my skills, I…I don’t know how to close this up! It’s deep and it’s already beginning to fester…I’m at a loss.”

“And there is no one else available in the entire camp that can do it?” Athos questions calmly.

Lebarre shakes his head. “No sir, our head physician is dead, our most skilled surgeon called away by the General to God knows where. Your Musketeer medic is on one of those cots, injured himself. The rest of us are doing the best we can with whatever skills we’ve picked up along the way.”

“Athos, a word,” Porthos murmurs. The big Musketeer takes him aside and speaks directly in his ear.

“You know who can do this, don’t you.”

Athos lets out a long breath.

“Bernaire, Marcel, find yourselves some horses,” Athos commands. “When you do, come straight back. Porthos will tell you where you’re going.” Both Musketeers salute and hurry away wordlessly.

Athos turns back to Porthos. “Do you think he’ll come?”

Porthos nods. “Yeah, he’ll come.”

 

***************

 

It’s been ages since he’s been outside the Abbey walls. At first, he used to go for walks in the forest, the children in tow when the weather permitted. But now, with battles raging within striking distance he keep the children safely inside the confines of the courtyard and himself there as well to keep a close eye on his charges.

The appearance of the two familiar faces at the gate is shocking. The pounding on the massive wooden doors had woken most of the monks, Aramis included, and he welcomes Marcel and Bernaire inside the safety of the compound eagerly. Aramis is course aware that there are French troops fighting in the valley below but he had no idea that the Musketeer regiment was among them. They politely refuse his offer of hospitality. It’s an urgent matter, they explain, no time for pleasantries.

The news they impart hits him like a musket shot to the gut. He needs a few minutes to compose himself and then a few more to change into more appropriate clothing. Riding into the French camp behind Bernaire brings back so many memories, and a longing that he’s tried to quell for years.

The two Musketeers hurry Aramis into the infirmary. He finds Athos, silent and pensive, Porthos asleep on a cot and d’Artagnan lying on a table, covered in blankets, still as death. There’s no time for greetings. Aramis commands Bernaire and Marcel to bring him buckets of boiling water and from the medic he requests bandages, needle and thread and some herbs that he hopes are available.

“Thank you for coming,” Athos says quietly, getting to his feet.

“Are you mad? Of course I’d come, for any of you,” Aramis replies, offended. He turns back to d’Artagnan and takes a long look at the boy. No longer a boy, he concedes, his face has grown harder, his stubble darker and thicker. He runs one hand gently through the young man’s hair before bracing himself to uncover the wound.

Aramis now fully understands why he was brought here, the reason is clearly twofold. The wound is horrendous and requires his skills but the fact that d’Artagnan might die is also blaringly obvious. If he passes it’s only right that the three of them are by his side when it happens. 

_God, please give me strength._

The boiling water is brought along with the medical supplies he’d requested and Aramis gets to work. Porthos is awake now but hasn’t said a word to him. He’ll worry about that later. Now he’s up to his elbows in blood and nothing matters but the lad he’s trying to save. 

“I need more light,” he mutters at some point and Porthos appears beside him, lamp in hand, silent and tense. Athos stays back though, Aramis knows that his attachment to d’Artagnan goes beyond the deep friendship and the brotherhood they all share. He’d mentored him, guided him, taken the boy under his wing, if he dies Athos will be a shadow of himself. A person can only take so much loss and keep going.

D’Artagnan hasn’t stirred, Aramis find that troubling. Bernaire, still seething, reminds him where they’d found the lad and in what state. Aramis adds possible overdose, along with shock and severe blood loss, to the long list of reasons why he hasn’t opened his eyes. He doesn’t share his thoughts with Bernaire though, better if his comrades don’t lose hope.

When he’s finally done he gently, almost reverently, cleans up all the blood and filth from d’Artagnan’s torso and he covers up the wound with clean bandages. Aramis has done all he can, he hopes to God it’s enough.

Athos helps him wash, pouring clean water over his hands when they’re scrubbed free of d’Artagnan’s blood and offers him a clean towel. It’s not actually a towel he notes, just a scrap of stiff, greying fabric passing for one. Supplies are always scarce at the front, Aramis has grown spoiled in the abbey he thinks to himself ruefully.

“Will you stay?” Athos wonders tentatively.

“Until he’s back on his feet, yes. The wound may need to be opened again,” he warns Athos. “I’ve cleaned it out as best as I can but according to the lads it’s been hours since his injury, God knows what’s happened between then and now.”

Athos nods. “I’ll stay with him. Go get yourself something to eat, I’ve sent Porthos to do the same.” 

The message is clear; _go find Porthos, talk to him._

Aramis wanders, exhausted and shaky, across the French camp to the mess tent. He’s greeted warmly by all the Musketeers he finds along the way. He hadn’t known what to expect and he’s heartened by the welcome he’s received. 

He finds Porthos sitting with a tin plate of stew in front of him, fork dangling from his fingers, staring absently at the stained canvas wall.

Aramis gets himself some food and sits down across from him.

“It’ll be touch and go but you know him, he’ll fight, he won’t go down easily.”

Porthos grunts in response but doesn’t engage.

“So how are you my friend?” Aramis tries. 

Porthos looks up at him. “Alive, mostly in one piece, trying my best to keep the others that way.” It comes out flat, with no inflection, his eyes stone cold.

Aramis sighs. This was never going to be easy. “I can’t apologise for not being here with you. It wasn’t really a choice, it was a vow, a promise.”

“Yeah, sort of like the vow you made to us,” Porthos replies dully. “Let’s not do this, eh? Please, I can’t…just don’t let the boy die, alright? It’ll break Athos…probably me too.”

Aramis feels his heart squeeze painfully. “And me as well,” he says quietly. “Just because I’m not here doesn’t mean I don’t love the three of you dearly, I pray for you every day, morning and night, I miss being…”

Porthos cuts him off with a slap of his hand on the rickety table. A few men look up from their food, see that it’s Porthos and quickly avert their gazes.

“I asked you not to do this, not now. One day maybe, but not today!”

Aramis nods. He feels miserable and empty but he has to respect Porthos’ request. His brothers have been through hell and there is plenty more to come. He picks at his food silently, drinks half a cup of watered wine and heads back to check on d’Artagnan. 

He finds the boy twisting around, moaning in pain. Athos has both hands on his shoulders, doing his best to soothe him and keep him still. The medic, Lebarre, is preparing something in a cup. More laudanum it appears, Aramis wonders how much he can have before it damages his organs. He raises his concerns to the others.

“He’ll open the stitches, I have no choice,” the medic says defensively.

“Just be careful, Bernaire said he was already given a heavy dose.” To help him die, Aramis adds to himself. He doesn’t blame the surgeons, not really. After a battle they have to make hard choices, who to try and save and who to comfort until they slip away. Not enough physicians, hardly any medical supplies and from what he sees around him, very little hope.

“I’m here, go get some rest,” Aramis advises the clearly exhausted Athos. 

Athos shakes his head. “I’ve missed you brother.” 

Oh, that _hurt_ , like a punch to the gut. The words are sincere, heartfelt, and yet Aramis feels wrecked. 

“I’ve missed you too…brother,” he says tentatively. “I know you feel betrayed but I hope that you can forgive me one day.”

“Aramis, there’s nothing to forgive. It’s your life, you have every right to live it as you choose.”

“And the boy?”

“He misses you like mad but he’s not angry and he certainly doesn’t feel betrayed. He talks about you, especially when he’s tired or injured, when he’s most vulnerable. Good things only, memories, nostalgia.”

Aramis saves that for later, tucks it into the corner of his heart reserved for the lad. He’ll revisit it when d’Artagnan is better, back on his feet and whole.

“They told me he saved another soldier, a boy from the Infantry. Of course he did,” Aramis says with a watery laugh. “Wouldn’t have expected anything else.”

Athos’ expression goes tense. “It’s becoming tedious, I should throw him in the brig for showing a complete lack of self-preservation.”

“He learned honour, loyalty and chivalry at your knee Athos, you can’t expect him to be anyone else. He’s a Musketeer and he behaves like one in every respect.”

Athos gives him a wry smile. “At my knee? He wasn’t in short pants when he came to Paris you know.”

Aramis sighs. “He may as well’ve been. Innocent farm boy, he knew nothing of the real world. Sadly, he learned quickly. Speaking of Paris, I hear that Constance is practically in charge of the garrison.”

“And where did you hear that?” Athos queries, one brow raised high.

“We correspond…here and there,” he fibs, promising to say some extra prayers later for the lie. They write much more often than that.

“Right. Don’t tell d’Artagnan, it’ll make him jealous, he pines for her and her letters often arrive weeks or even months after they’re written.”

“Married for a few hours then separated for years, it must be very hard on him.”

“Surprisingly, it’s not the fighting that’s wearing him down, it’s her absence, I’ve offered to send him home on furlough but he won’t leave us, stubborn boy.”

Aramis is depending on that stubbornness to keep him alive. “Go, rest, you need it after that knock on the head. Take Porthos too, I won’t leave the lad alone, I promise.”

Athos looks doubtful. It passes quickly though, no matter what’s happened between them Athos knows that Aramis would never abandon d’Artagnan. 

The Captain leaves. When Athos is gone Aramis hides his face from prying eyes and lets the tears fall silently.

 

***************

 

By the next morning D’Artagnan is fevered and restless and too noisy for the infirmary so they move him into Athos’ tent. 

He burns with fever, cries out in his sleep, barely stays still for more than a few moments at a time and the three of them are exhausted. 

Athos has pressing duties though; he presides over the burial of the Musketeer dead, does the rounds in the infirmary, taking the time to sit with each of his men, reassigns the survivors to new units so they can start training as soon as possible. A victory is not a reprieve; a raid can come at any minute. Thankfully, the Infantry and the Cavalry have set up camp along with them, a smart defensive move since they all have severely depleted numbers.

He goes and comes whenever he can, sends Porthos and Aramis to rest, eat and wash for a few hours at a time. The pair of them are barely speaking to each other but at least they’re civil.

Thank goodness for small mercies Athos thinks.

He’s alone with d’Artagnan when the boy comes fully awake, clearly in an exceptional amount of pain. Athos uses his sternest tone to make him drink some water tinged with laudanum and breathe through it until the medicine takes the edge off. 

“That’s it lad, just focus on me, if you calm down I promise it will hurt less.” D’Artagnan looks doubtful but he obeys his Captain dutifully. Athos almost feel guilty.

His eyes are fever bright and his face flushed and sweaty. Athos uses a wet cloth on his cheeks, then on his neck and he folds it and leaves it on his forehead. In seconds, the cool cloth is burning hot. 

“Are we going home soon?”

Those were d’Aratgnan’s first words to Porthos the night before as well. Athos assumes his confusion is mostly from the laudanum, coupled with a heavy dose of wishful thinking. He forces a smile. “Soon, yes. You’ll never guess, Aramis is here, we’re just minutes away from the abbey, he’s come to visit us.”

D’Artagnan closes his eyes. “I thought I’d dreamt him,” he whispers, slurring his words.

“You didn’t, he’s really here, looking after you.”

“Why?”

“You were injured, it’s nothing serious, you just need to rest,” Athos explains again patiently. Every time he opens his eyes they need to remind him, it’s unsettling, worrisome.

D’Artagnan opens his eyes to slits. “When’re we going back to Paris?”

“Soon lad, just trying to put everything in order here, get you back on your feet,” he answers with false brightness.

“Athos, I feel…sick,” the boy says suddenly. 

Oh no… _no no no no no_ , he’ll tear his stitches if he vomits. Athos gets on his knees beside the cot and lifts him as carefully as possible. D’Artagnan cries out and falls against him heavily. Athos puts one hand on the back of his head and helps him lean over the chamber pot. Sobbing from the pure agony, d’Artagnan’s mouth opens, water gushes out and then he screams, a horrible, wounded sound that rips right through Athos’ gut. 

Seconds later he goes limp and he passes out in Athos’ arms.

Athos thinks he can actually hear his heart shattering.

 

***************

 

“He’s not getting any better is he?”

Porthos poses the question to Aramis, who’s restitching a corner of the ugly wound near d’Artagnan’s shoulder. Earlier, he’d been forced to open some of the stitches and dig into the knitting flesh in order to drain out the infection. Thank God the lad had been in a deep, drug induced sleep, Porthos wouldn’t wish such a horror on his worst enemy.

“He’ll get better,” Aramis replies calmly. “And I have nothing else to do other than sit here and make sure that happens.”

“What about the abbey, the monks, won’t they be looking for you?” Porthos wants to know.

“It’s not a prison my friend and I haven’t taken any vows yet, I’m still free to come and go as I like,” Aramis explains.

Porthos mulls over this revelation. “Two years and you haven’t fully dedicated yourself? Maybe it’s not the right thing for you.”

Aramis covers d’Artagnan’s wound with clean bandages and pulls up the blanket, tucking it carefully around the unconscious lad.

“It’s a process, Porthos, you can’t just show up after years of being a soldier and say ‘I’d like to be a monk’. I have repent, and prove myself, it takes a while.” 

Porthos is far from convinced. “Prove what? And to whom exactly? The abbot? God? To yourself?” 

Aramis looks uncomfortable. Porthos feels righteously smug that he’s hit a nerve.

“All of the above,” Aramis says quietly, his eyes focused on d’Artagnan. 

“It was never like that with us, never had to prove anything to each other. I knew what kind of man you were the minute we met. You wear your heart on your sleeve you know, even though you think you can hide it behind humour and meaningless sex. Him too, balls of brass our boy has, challenged Athos like David to Goliath, never even blinked. He’s made us very proud here at the front.”

“What about Athos? When you first met him he was a heartbroken drunk.”

Porthos nods. “He was, but he was honourable, a gentleman to the core, regardless. Do you remember his first day on duty at the garrison?”

Aramis nods, smiling wryly. “Thrashed the baker’s son soundly for kissing the blacksmith’s daughter without her permission. But only after he’d extracted a confession, like you said, a gentleman, he gave the boy a chance to explain, heard both sides of the story and then took out the paddle.”

“Exactly. He was fair, did what he had to. It’s why he was dying inside when he came to Paris, he’d been duty-bound to hand out punishment as ‘Lord of the Manor’, even if it was his own wife.” Porthos says this very softly, the last thing he wants is for Athos to overhear, to open painful old wounds.

It’s the most he and Aramis have said to each other in the past three days. Porthos though is finding it harder and harder to hold a grudge. He misses this, the easy banter, the familiarity, the comfort of having all his brothers close. He can see that Aramis feels it too, even with all his talk of vows and dedicating himself to God.

They both startle when d’Artagnan begins to stir. “Didn’t you give him enough laudanum? If he wakes he’ll be in agony,” Porthos warns, anxious.

Aramis frowns. “I did, but reopening the wound was brutal, he may have felt some of it. I can’t give him anymore Porthos, not yet.” 

“I can’t watch him suffer anymore, Aramis, you have to do something!”

D’Artagnan continues to fight for consciousness, twisting weakly and mumbling nonsense. Porthos feels utterly helpless and irrationally angry with Aramis although none of this is of course is his fault. Still, he expects him to do something, anything to keep d’Artagnan from waking up in ferocious pain.

Aramis for his part looks troubled and indecisive. Angry or not Porthos acknowledges that he’s between Scylla and Charybdis* since the laudanum is both dangerous and addictive. “I have an idea,” Aramis says finally. He lifts the lad’s head and tosses the lumpy pillow aside and then he straddles the narrow cot, gently inching d’Artagnan up to lean against him. It doesn’t look particularly comfortable for Aramis but d’Artagnan begins to relax almost immediately.

“Porthos, bring me that pillow back, put it under him, right here, in between my legs,” he instructs. 

Porthos quickly complies, supporting d’Artagnan’s neck and head with the well-worn pillow. He’s carried that thing around since day one and it shows. Placed neatly into his bedroll by his new bride the pillow used to have tiny flowers embroidered in the corners. It quickly became the target of fireside jokes from the other lads. Aramis wouldn’t know any of that of course Porthos thinks, disappointed. He could have never imagined a time would come when they didn’t know everything about each other and weren’t living in each other’s pockets.

D’Artagnan thankfully, has finally settled, his breathing steady and his fever-ravaged body still. It seems that the comfort of Aramis’ embrace has pushed the boy back into his drugged slumber. Aramis has that affect on people Porthos acknowledges. It’s a gift, and when his naturally sunny disposition is added to the mix, everyone falls under his spell. Porthos misses that part of him more than he will ever admit, his uncanny ability to transform a miserable, rainy day into your best memory or convince a mortally wounded soldier that where he’s going next is a paradise well worth his sacrifice.

“Porthos?”

“Hmn?”

“Are you alright? You…drifted.”

Lost in his thoughts he hadn’t realised that he was still standing there, hovering. Porthos takes two steps back and practically collapses onto the Captain’s cot. “How long do you think you can sit like that? Looks mighty uncomfortable,” Porthos notes wryly.

Aramis tightens his arms around the sleeping d’Artagnan and give Porthos a fond smile. “As long as it takes.”

Porthos knows he means it.

 

***************

 

“I can cut your hair a little, try and even out the mess the medic made.”

Athos looks up from his makeshift desk; a flour barrel and a stool. Porthos had actually taken the time to remove some of the side of the barrel so that he can fold up his legs inside and sit closer. It’s not exactly comfortable but it works. Aramis is sitting cross-legged on a bedroll, carefully mending the torn leather of d’Artagnan’s doublet. What had Porthos once said? _‘Aramis should’ve been a seamstress, fine needlework he does.’_

“Since when do I actually care about my appearance, Aramis.”

Aramis puts down his sewing and gives him a crooked grin. “Never, but I have time on my hands and you’re looking…unkempt.”

Athos sighs, his gaze going to d’Artagnan, unmoving aside from the slight tremors that wrack his frame every few moments.

“He’s slipping away from us.” 

Aramis goes visibly tense. “Not if I can help it,” he retorts.

“But what if you can’t? He’s been burning for four days, you’ve already reopened the wound, what more can you do? I’m not blaming you, brother, just preparing myself…” Athos stops there, mentally berating himself for his morbid pessimism.

“I’ve sent a couple of the lads to find me some herbs, I’m going to use a different poultice, I’ve never tried it before but one of the brothers at the abbey swears by it.”

Athos thinks he’s grasping but he doesn’t say that out loud. “Where’s Porthos by the way?” Athos had been so absorbed in his letters he’d barely noticed his absence.

“In his tent, sleeping, he could hardly stand. We spoke yesterday by the way, a full conversation, it was good. Not like old times mind you, but still, good.” 

“I’m glad. Seeing you two at odds is painful. We have enough on our plates at the moment. Has the boy had any of that broth? Water?”

“Yes to both, but very little.” Aramis gets to his feet and stretches. His muscles must ache after four days of mostly kneeling at the lad’s bedside. Although isn’t that what monks do all day? Kneel, pray, eat, sleep, then all over again?

“What are you thinking about?” Aramis asks curiously. “You had a very peculiar expression just then.”

“Nothing important. Can I ask you a question?”

Aramis knits his brow. “Of course, anything, I have no secrets from you.”

“Are you happy? Is life in the abbey everything you’d hoped for? Expected?” A part of Athos wants to hear him say _‘no, I’m miserable’_ but he loves him too much to wish that upon him.

“It’s everything I expected, yes. But that’s because I already knew what the life of a monk entailed. We’re sheltering orphans as well, I look after them, teach them to read and write, it’s fulfilling, the closest I’ll ever get to raising children of my own.” The rest is left unsaid, it’s too painful and they’ve already learned the hard way to avoid anything even vaguely treasonous.

“I’m glad for you then. But you haven’t actually answered my question. Are you happy?”

Aramis turns away from him and goes to sit on the stool beside d’Artagnan’s cot. “Not exactly, but it’s my penance so I’m not really meant to be happy.”

“Aramis…”

“Can you give me a hand here? I need to change the bandages. He gets agitated when I tend to the wound.”

Athos doesn’t insist. He is fully aware of the fact that Aramis carries a very heavy mantle of guilt; Marguerite’s suicide, the damage to the Queen’s reputation and his betrayal of the special relationship they’d shared when he’d begun sleeping with their son’s governess. That’s just the tip of the iceberg though. Aramis is also irrationally punishing himself for everything he’s ever done, as a soldier and a lover, and as a friend. 

Athos kneels on the other side of the cot. He’s seen a lot of good men die from battle wounds, comrades in arms, fellow Frenchman and Musketeers. Watching d’Artagnan slowly slipping away though is incomparable. Athos finds it hard to reconcile the young man dying in front of his eyes with the boy who’d once fearlessly challenged him to a duel. He’d brought light and life into their mundane lives, mischief and laughter. His friendly rivalry with Porthos was a constant source of amusement for the regiment, his acts of bravery and courage an inspiration to all his Musketeer brothers. Without him the world would be a much darker place, for all of them.

Aramis works on his patient silently, efficiently. He’s pulled the blanket off and lifted up the lad’s shirt and once he’s splashed spirits on his hands he begins to unpeel the bandages. The injury still looks as ghastly as it did when it was an open, gaping wound. Now the boy’s reddened, swollen skin is held together tentatively by black thread and whispered prayers. Whether open or closed though the injury is killing him and Athos is powerless to stop it.

“If he…leaves us, Porthos will be broken,” Athos says quietly, stroking the damp hair off his scorching face.

Aramis stops what he’s doing and looks up, his gaze intense. “That’s odd, he said the same thing about you. Would you really allow his death to break you, brother? You know he’d hate that, for us to fall apart.”

“I know, but I’ve been falling apart for years my dear friend, piece by piece, a new loss, another heartbreak and more of me falls away. I won’t lie, I’ve never managed to come to terms with you being gone from my side, regardless of the platitudes, Porthos either, but you already knew that. If we lose d’Artagnan I’m done Aramis, I’m just _done_.”

Aramis covers up d’Artagnan’s wound with meticulous care. When he’s finished he pulls down his shirt, tugs the blanket up to the boy’s neck and he leans back on his heels.

“Then I’ll just have to make sure that we don’t lose him, won’t I?” 

Aramis says it with so much conviction and sincerity that Athos’ heart leaps. 

Might that be hope he’s feeling? Athos isn’t quite sure, he hasn’t felt that in a very long time.

 

***************

 

On the fifth day after the battle in which d’Artagnan had saved the life of a young Infantryman his fever breaks.

His condition is still precarious and his injury will take weeks to heal but Aramis is feeling confident that he will make a full recovery. He tells Athos and Porthos this while standing in the drizzle outside of the Captain’s tent. The camp is a frenzy of activity, soldiers hurrying back and forth to secure their supplies and artillery from the impending storm. The three of them barely take notice of the activity around them.

“He’s sleeping now but it’s a natural slumber. He’ll be restless and in considerable pain for a while, you’ll have to be patient with him, remember that he’s been to hell and back. Make sure he eats, small portions, a few times a day. Get him up too, as soon as he’s able, he needs to get the circulation going, we’ve avoided bedsores for now but they can still develop.”

“And you’re telling us all of this because you’re leaving I assume?” Porthos asks. His tone isn’t exactly angry but Aramis can see the disappointment in his brother’s eyes. 

“Let’s get out of the rain, shall we?” Athos suggests and the three of file into the captain’s tent silently, pensive and tense. 

Everything else fades away the minute they look over at d’Artagnan, who’s awake and appears to be fully lucid for the first time since his injury. Porthos grins big, all teeth and laugh lines around his eyes and he sits down next to the boy, takes his hand in between both of his.

“Oh, you scared the life out of us you did!” the big Musketeer says, eyes damp.

Athos sits on the other side of him. He looks utterly relieved and he’s smiling but Aramis knows that he’ll still worry and fret and hover unreasonably until the lad is completely recovered. 

D’Artagnan tries to reply but he can barely speak, his voice comes out hoarse and scratchy and it sounds painful. Porthos hushes him, tells him his can talk his ear off when he’s feeling better.

When he sees Aramis his eyes go wide. He smiles tiredly, tries to say his name, all that comes out is a something unintelligible. He coughs, clears his throat and tries again. This time it he says it, softly, but clear as day.

Athos rises hastily and offers Aramis his stool.

“You’re here.” He can hardly keep his eyes open, he reminds Aramis of a small child who claims not to be sleepy yet really is. That brings a fond smile to Aramis’ face.

“Of course I’m here! You’re right next door you know, it would have been rude of me to not pop in and say hello,” he teases. 

“I’ve missed you.” 

His heart clenches. “I’ve missed you too lad, more than you could ever know.” His words go unheard though, d’Artagnan is already fast asleep.

“I’ll stay with him. The pair of you should get something to eat, Aramis isn’t going anywhere until the rain stops. Porthos, you will escort him back in the morning when it’s safest.”

Athos sounds nothing like the defeated man of just hours before. The light it back in his eyes, his shoulders are straighter, his hands steadier. Aramis reminds himself to thank God in his prayers not only for sparing d’Artagnan but Athos and Porthos as well. Himself too.

“No thanks Captain. You know what I want to do? Sleep. I haven’t had more than two hours sleep straight for days.” Porthos takes off his leather doublet, tosses it aside carelessly. He collapses onto Athos’ cot, pulls a blanket over himself and within minutes he’s snoring softly.

“When thou liest down, thou shalt not be afraid: yea, thou shalt lie down, and thy sleep shall be sweet.”* 

Aramis recites the verse quietly, almost to himself but Athos looks up, smiles tentatively and nods. 

“Indeed.”

 

***************

 

“So, do you think we’ll ever see each other again?” They’ve just reached the abbey, Bernaire and an older Musketeer called Gerard wait at a discreet distance to give them a few moments of privacy.

Aramis looks hurt. Porthos wants to feel smug about that but he can’t.

“Of course we will! When this war is over, when you and the lads are back in one place, I’m sure we’ll correspond and visit each other, it’ll be easier then.” He sounds earnest enough but Porthos doesn’t want to get his hopes up. It’s taken him a long time to get used to being just three again, in all honestly it was hard to even remember that far back, the boy had fit in so seamlessly, as if he’d always been there.

“I figured that wouldn’t be allowed,” Porthos says, doubtful.

“Yes, well, we’ll find a way.” 

From the look on his face though Porthos is afraid this may be goodbye. 

This is not the time to hold on to anger; he, Athos and d’Artagnan could be dead in a week, maybe less, maybe more, only God knows the answer to that. He reaches for Aramis, pulls him in close, holds him tight. 

Aramis lets out a sob, tells him he will be praying for them, that he’ll miss them. Porthos thinks that even if their previous exchange was all platitudes everything that Aramis has just said is true.

When Aramis pulls back his eyes are brimming with tears. He tries to smile but his face crumples, it’s no use pretending, Porthos feels exactly the same way.

They both turn and walk away, Porthos back to his brothers, Aramis back to his, it’s somewhat ironic since _they’re_ brothers too, always will be, no matter how far apart they are.

Back at camp, d’Artagnan is sleeping again but he looks better, so much better. Athos as well, the gash on his head is healing nicely, the color back in his cheeks. The pall that had been hanging over them for the past few days has somehow disappeared, despite Aramis’ departure. 

Athos has been summoned by the General for an urgent meeting so Porthos sits with d’Artagnan, watching over him while he rests peacefully for the first time in days. In one hand Porthos holds a tin cup filled halfway with Athos’ finest brandy, he uses the other to periodically check d’Artagnan for fever, something that’s probably no longer necessary but has become a reflexive instinct to the big Musketeer.

He thinks about Aramis and their brief time together after a two year absence. One thing is very clear; he may be angry with Aramis but that hasn’t dampened Porthos’ deep affection for him. Most importantly though Aramis had saved d’Artagnan, of that there is no doubt, the boy would never have survived without his intervention. It makes him wonder about God’s will and all that. Was Aramis meant to be in the abbey so he could be safe until the crucial moment that d’Artagnan’s life had literally depended on his presence? Was it chance or fate that they were stationed in the valley bellow the abbey? If Aramis had been fighting with them would none of this have happened to begin with? There are too many scenarios for Porthos to consider and the only one that really matters is the one that actually played out, here, _now_ , with d’Artagnan still breathing, with Athos restored to health, and Porthos’ soul lighter than it has been in a very long time. 

It’s because he knows he’ll see Aramis again, the doubts have faded and he feels it in his heart, he can practically see their reunion in his head, imagine d’Artagnan throwing himself at the older man unreservedly, hugging him close like the long lost friend and brother that he’s ached for. Athos will smile indulgently, make some witty comment, pat him on the back, tell him he’s been missed. Porthos though will be reticent at first, his disappointment lingering, but in time those feelings will fade and he and Aramis will be true brothers again.

“What’re you smiling about?”

The words are soft and still a bit slurred, like he’s just eaten something sour. Porthos blinks, shakes himself out of his thoughts and looks at the boy. He looks drowsy and muddled and absolutely awful, but he’s alive. At the moment Porthos can’t ask for anything more.

“Finally, about time you got your lazy ass out of bed!”

D’Artagnan snorts out a weak laugh, then a groan, the pain flares with even the slightest movement. He’ll be suffering while he heals and that will take a very long time. Porthos squeezes his hand in sympathy and holds on to it, even after he’s fallen back asleep he doesn’t let go.

He’ll never let go, of any of them...ever. 

 

Fin

 

*Pourpoint – The blue padded under-vest you see Athos wearing in ‘The Challenge’.

*Between Scylla and Charybdis – From Homer’s Odyssey, two immortal monsters, a synonym to ‘between a rock and a hard place’.

*The Bible verse Aramis recites is Proverbs 3:24

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading 'Over, Under' the next chapter is done, it just needs tweaking, stay tuned:)


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